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Leaning over the safety rail, you aim your gun below and warn, “You’ve got five seconds to come out before I have my PUEXO cook you alive.”
A yelp of fright, then a stream of words in the Khanate’s pidgin language. Then…
“Wait, wait, wait!” the survivor screams desperately in heavily accented English, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I surrender!”
…he couldn’t have been more than sixteen. The youth who emerges, pale and frightened beyond belief, is thin and gangly. Not malnourished, but definitely lacking the bulk of his fellow raiders…if he could even be called that. He isn’t wearing any armor, and the belt of tools on his waist speak more of a repairman or engineer.
Not that you fail to notice the pistol strapped to his thigh.
You pause, momentarily taken aback. A member of the Khanate surrendering. What kind of trickery is this? But you don’t let the surprise last long. Eyes narrowing you put the sights right between the kid’s eyes.
“There anyone else with you?!” you demand.
“N-no, it’s just me, I swear!”
“You better be telling me the truth, boy.”
“I am! You and the marines, you all killed…everyone else is dead!”
…huh. Guess you did.
As the Magellan idles alongside and levels the plasma cutter, you eye one of the ladders connecting the boat to the Calypso. “HOPI, he telling the truth?”
“Yes,” she answers quickly. “But beyond the gun, he doesn’t really-”
The kid only seems to notice. Both you and the Magellan swivel, aiming your guns as he drops his hands to his thigh. He shrieks, pleading, “No, no! I’m…I’m not doing anything!”
He skips right over the weapon, moving instead for the buckle. With a click, the holster drops to the deck. And regarding it like a venomous snake, the kid sends it skidding across the deck with a kick.
“Keep an eye on him,” you mutter to HOPI. “I’m coming down, kid. No sudden moves or else…”
One ladder trip later finds you atop the deck of the attack boat, pistol aimed center mass at the Khanate youth. Who’s since prostrated himself in abject submission, all the while blubbering for his life. You’ve since appropriated his pistol, strapping it to your own thigh. “Who are you?”
.
Past the snot and tears, he mumbles, “G-Gren. Gren. I’m Gren, sir. That’s my name.”
…what a stupid name. “You the mechanic? The onboard engineer?”
He nods, swallowing, “Y-yes.”
You gesture to his waist. “Toolbelt, too. No sudden moves.”
Gren complies, even as his hands shake violently out of fear. It takes the boy three times before he’s able to undo the belt, whereupon it crashes onto the deck in a cacophony of metal. He steps away hastily, out of arm’s reach from any wrenches, screwdrivers or other improvised weapons.
“I surrender,” he repeats, as if you didn’t hear him earlier. “I’m your prisoner now, yes?”
That remains to be seen. You cut him off, “Why did you attack us?”
(cont.)
